


We stand in the meadow where it became flesh, and the meadow is silent

by lightraze



Series: And they turn away the cameras and scream/"kill, kill, kill" [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Battle of Vulcan, Betazed, Child Abuse, Children's Army, Crime, Dark!Kirk, Dehumanization, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Drug Addiction, Eating Disorders, Espionage, Federation Council, Free Will, Genocide, Iro Provisional Militia (IPM), Laile Resistance (LR), Literature, M/M, Military, Mind Control, Multi, Murder, Orionverse, Palais de la Concorde, Poetry, Prison, Section 31 (Star Trek), Self-Harm, Shakespearean Tragedy, Slavery, Spies & Secret Agents, Tarsus IV, Torture, War, dark and twisty, dark!Spock, epidemic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightraze/pseuds/lightraze
Summary: "Better a patient man than a warrior, a man who controls his temper, than one who takes a city." ~ Proverbs 16:32Our story starts in a prison cell, as all great romances begin. After returning from a deep-cover mission in Orion Syndicate space, Jim and Spock-an agent within Starfleet's most secretive organization-return to the field to finish the task they'd set out to start-the successful return to undercover operations in Orion Syndicate territory. Ensemble, K/S.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Series: And they turn away the cameras and scream/"kill, kill, kill" [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084769
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Among the red guns/In the hearts of soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> i. features _lightraze_ as kirk and _wanderlust_ as spock  
> ii. _hunger camp at jaslo_ , wislawa szymborska  
> iii. _among the red guns_ , carl sandburg  
> iv. [cover](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/776940515605217311/779773615603843102/rattle_the_stars.png)

"He's been here for _three days_ , Winona," Javik mutters, rolling his eyes at the shorter woman (-and she is shorter; he's about seven feet tall and a quarter-Klingon dressed in Starfleet blues, an effervescent mystery wrapped in _gagh_ and stupendous opera-) keeping stride with him. "G-d knows I can't reach him, and you _knew_ that going in," he points a finger at her, even as she conceals a smirk and tosses her long blonde hair, finally pausing to regard him coolly.  
  
"Stop worrying so much, Parish," is what she says, adjusting her collar. "I know my son. And if you think I came here without a plan, you're sorely mistaken. Marcus assures us he's sent his best," she adds, straightening up. The corridors between them are long and loaming, an endless stream of chromium-white gleaming their reflections in stereo.  
  
"You had to know he'd be an absolute nightmare," Parish chuffs in his long, drawn-out Alabama drawl. "The kid nearly gave me a black eye, for goodness' sake. You'd think he'd have more gratitude toward us _lowly plebes_ who are trying to help him."  
  
"Yes, well," Winona laughs a little. "Jimmy's never been too good at _figuring it out_. And he's been in deep for a while. Just give him some time. Marcus's little prodigy might have better luck." She slaps her hand against the panel to the door they both stop at, which swishes open to reveal a long row of medical containment cells, and none-other than James Tiberius Kirk lounging across the force-field enclosed bench.  
  
"Oh, good. You brought guests," is what Jim observes dryly, lacing his fingers behind his head, feet crossed at the ankles as he leans back against the wall. "You know, mom, it's pretty hard to conduct a debrief when you're stuck in the brig." His bushy eyebrows arch.  
  
"And you wouldn't be in there if you hadn't tried to _bite_ Dr. Parish," Winona snaps back.  
  
"Look," he laughs, as if it's all a big joke. "Cannibalism is a time-honored tradition in the Orava clan. I was just being polite."  
  
"Cannibalism-" Parish blanches. "He's not serious-"  
  
"He's _not_ serious," Winona growls. "And you'd better _smarten the fuck up_ , Jimmy. We've got real work to do, and Orava's only going to remain so cooperative. To that end, Ensign Spock will be conducting your debrief."  
  
" _Ensign_ Spock can lick my infested asshole," Jim snarls.  
  
"I would hardly be surprised," Parish can't help but return sarcastically.  
  
"Orions," Jim smirks. "If you don't leave _Kolar_ with a good old fashioned STD, you're doing it wrong. And for the record, that's a no on the _psycho rooting around in my head_ shit. I had enough of that on Betazed, and you know how that turned out."  
  
"Unfortunately," Winona groans. "And shut up. You're cooperating," she tells him firmly. He goes to object, but she raises her hands, interjecting firmly. "No, you're _cooperating_ , if you ever want any hope of getting out of this cell."  
  
"Always happy to be a _guest of the Federation._ "  
  
Winona withdraws her communicator from her pocket, flipping it open. "Marcus for the love of G-d he had better be ready to conduct this interrogation because I'm about two seconds away from separating my boy's head from his neck and peering inside of it myself."


	2. Running free blood

His nape buzzes, a 1.5 secs vibration under his skin, propagating through the nerves in his neck like low electricity. A flash signal, or a white whistling noise, or a snap of fingers. His head jerks up crisply, like a gear springing into place. His nostrils twitch imperceptibly, as he stares into the void for a fraction of a second, unflinching, before switching his workstation off and standing up quickly. He fixes his uniform, black as the blackest oil, and exits the room, leaving behind only a faint scent of ozone, and copper, and incense.  
  
He strides through corridors. Martial, and graceful as raw, red sand, too vigilant and disconcerting in his total economy of motion. Just like code, he achieves elegance through minimalism. Through the briefest, most efficient choice of movements, a single string, a single algorithm. One that smells of rot and glowing embers and sickly chemicals just an inch below the surface. One that’s draped in decay and hides the stench of death behind garish perfumes and Starfleet badges. He turns and marches through a labyrinth that tastes like home in a way that’s exquisitely familiar, so familiar it makes him ill, and with blind, mapped-out certainty, he reaches Marcus’s office in less than two minutes. He knocks. He waits. And when the doors automatically open in front of him, he steps in.  
  
“Sir,” he greets formally, standing to attention, hands strictly laced behind his ramrod-straight back. A unique composition of militarism and _calculated neatness_.  
  
His life, after all, has always been centered on flawlessness. Or, at least, a performance of it. A restless, destructive pursuit. So destructive, and so _impossible_ for a creature like him, that it burns everything in its path. “You requested my presence.”  
  
The Admiral’s eyes don’t rise to meet his agent. They are running over a PADD, singularly unimpressed. Neon-like hues and faint blue reflections flicker on his crusty, weathered features, and he shows no sign of acknowledging Spock’s presence in the room. All sleek blacks and gleaming silvers, metallic enough to feel cold even at maximum heat. Let alone allowing a parade rest. The way he comfortably ignores the eerie glow his operative gives off, like a glitch in the fabric of spacetime, or a dark, smoky shadow, is, admittedly, remarkable, but, perhaps, not too surprising. He _likes_ that edged volatility, after all. As long as it is duly bridled.  
  
“An external contractor of ours just came back from an undercover assignment in Orion territory. He needs debrief, and he’s being… uncooperative, to put it gently. I want you,” he finally regards the Vulcan, taps his knuckles twice on the hard metal surface of his desk, the Academy ring clattering loudly against it, and points two fingers at him with a mocking of comradery, “to fix it.”  
  
Spock’s face doesn’t morph. His gaze still pierces through nothingness and hazy wells of polished respect, speaking a language of obedience that isn’t made of bowed heads and lowered eyes, but tense muscles, firm composure, a striking spectacle of strength for you to own.  
  
He ornates the office like an otherworldly statue of marble and basalt, and no one would ever contest whose prize he is. No one would say it out loud either, though. He does not even get to _harbour the thought_. Too outrageously unambiguous.  
  
“Do I have access to his file, sir?” he asks, blinking once.  
  
“I’m sending it to you right now. Name’s James Kirk, he’s the son of Admiral Winona Kirk. A veteran in the Section.” Marcus quickly turns the PADD towards Spock, pushing it in his direction. “He’s a troubled kid, too messy for my taste, but we do have a use for him, still. Just do whatever to get him under control. I want you to retrieve the information he gathered from his time with the Orions, and possibly calm him down in the process. You’re a telepath, after all. I’m sure you’ll manage.” He displays a honed, tolerant smile. Almost fatherly. “Constant, constant Spock. You always manage.”  
  
Weirdly, Spock feels something extraneous, something viscous, twist his guts, and he can’t tell whether it’s satisfaction, or nausea. He doesn’t flinch, though, nor does he linger on the sensation. He never does. It is unwise, and unproductive. Instead, he nears the desk, looking at the device that was handed to him.  
  
Ocean-deep eyes, wheat-colored hair, thick eyebrows and strong jaw, James T. Kirk’s identifying photo stares at him from the bright screen of the PADD. Spock reads through it carefully, absorbing details at heightened speed. Well, _fascinating_. Apparently, the subject was involved in more than one project Spock himself has dealt with, too. Undoubtedly useful to establish a connection. And, tangentially, he’d been on _Tarsus IV_ during the massacre. _To each their own share of shit_ , to borrow human vernacular.  
  
“A Starfleet doctor is going to be present, too. Javik Parish. No need for him to know more confidential information than necessary. And same goes for Kirk himself. This means you keep your cover, _Ensign._ ”  
  
The Vulcan nods once, pursing his lips. “Understood, sir. Anything else I need to be aware of?”  
  
“That you’d better not disappoint.” Marcus’s eyebrows jump high on his forehead, and he delivers the threat with carefree delicacy, as if he was stating the obvious. “Winona Kirk asked for the best, and I’m giving that to her. I’m sure you’ll live up to the term, as always.” His voice changes, migrating towards the authoritative assertiveness of a rightfully unforgiving leader. “Because if you disappoint her, you disappoint _me_. But you know that already.”  
  
The air acidifies at the mere thought, as a vertigo causes the world to spin and a black, stinking egg grows in his swollen throat, cuts his air supply, enhances the sickness, sizzles like a slimy, festering wound oozing acrid pus. His gaze gets so very distant, so very numb. His jaw clenches hard, the skin stretching on his sharp cheekbones.  
  
“I do, sir. I will deliver.”  
  
“Good boy.” The human smiles. “Who knows, maybe you’ll even find common ground with Kirk. You know one thing or two on Orions too, don’t you, Spock?” he snorts, shaking his head condescendingly, as if he was sharing a harmless joke.  
  
Spock’s eyes snap up, a clear, millimetric twitch, and once they lock on the Admiral, they _transfix_. A dangerous glare crawls and glints in the back of his lightless irises, cold and sharp and all-consuming, and for an instant he feels his hands itch furiously at the prospect of... but no. He loosens his fists, behind his back. He looks away. He barricades his heart with barbed wire and reinforced concrete, and falls in line.  
  
“It is a possibility, sir. You are right,” he confirms diligently, empty words with empty meanings, awfully flat.  
  
Marcus tilts his head, pleased.  
  
“There it is, they’re going in now.” The Admiral alerts, getting his PADD back, where a notification has beeped on the screen. “Go suit up appropriately. You have access to the live feed from the brig at your workstation. You can follow from there, get an idea of how the boy behaves. Stand by and ready to proceed when you’re told. Dismissed.”  
  
The Vulcan nods curtly. “Thank you, Admiral.”


	3. In the long, long campaign:

Twenty minutes later, chrome-plated doors open silently, and jaded eyes latch onto the only three figures in the area. He analyzes them briefly, as he walks towards James Kirk’s holding cell and stops one meter away from Admiral Kirk, and Dr. Parish. All blue science-track uniform-the perfect Vulcan stereotype, always show them what they expect to see and they will not grasp what lies beneath. Gleaming silvery pin, lustrous obsidian hair, thin but resistant gloves covering his hands.  
  
“Ma’am.” Winona is the first he addresses, a stern, terse look on his face, his head bending in a detached salute. Of course she’s the first. She isn’t just an Admiral, she’s _Section_. He owes Section members a particular kind of compliance, a particular kind of deference. Or so they say. “Doctor,” he continues, turning towards Parish with concise formality, and eventually, he gazes at the man behind the force field. He stares, unblinking. He stops. “Mr. Kirk.” He lingers there a few seconds more than necessary, diving into Jim Kirk’s eyes with unreadable directness, and glassy intensity.  
  
Then, he faces Winona again, raising his chin militarily. “I am Ensign Spock. I can commence the interrogation whenever you want me to.”  
  
Winona's eyes flick heavenward, long tresses of blonde infused with the barest wisps of gray the only indication of _weatheredness_ she possesses; but it's a quality one Section agent can always recognize in another.  
  
Her jaw ticks and her eyebrow arches. "You're not wearing your cover, Ensign. You don't need to salute me. At ease," she plays right into it-this idea that Spock is a veritable _fresh-off the boat ensign_ , eager to follow every rule and regulation the Federation can throw at him-and _blah, blah, blah_.  
  
It's the little things that matter, and Jimmy's just watching them-sharp blue eyes tracking between them like a hawk surveying its prey. He's the one in the brig, but it's difficult not to feel like _they're_ the ones in danger from a predator. He moves slowly, agilely to his feet, tucking his hands in the medical-issued grey sweatpants afforded to him, his blue scrub shirt hanging awkwardly enough from his shoulder that a long, winding scar visibly curls over his neck and fades away into his collar.  
  
"Mr. Spock," is what he says, congenial-not feral, not hostile. His smile is upbeat, eyes bright. And he doesn't say _ensign_ -and somehow it doesn't feel like _disrespect_. There's a buzzing in this room, too-a buzzing that won't dissipate, an electricity crackling. Gleaming and enticing and mischievous and drawing. Drowning.  
  
Parish isn't the only one who's postulated that old Jimmy has some Orion blood hidden somewhere. It is impossible not to stare, it is impossible to walk through a room and not be instantly magnetized toward his presence.  
  
"I guess you'd better get started," he smirks and it's Winona's smirk, too. Layers upon layers, kaleidoscopic-Rayleigh scattering filtered through endless glass slides. "Why don't you come inside and make yourself a little more comfortable?" he grins, then-and it is genuine, this time. Even a little _flirty_ -because that's his default-setting and _You Were Warned Going In_ -but being faced with it is different.  
  
It's playful-there's no expectation, there's no objectification or fetishization. It's more like Jim can _sense_ something in him-is reaching for something real. It isn't merely a play(-even though it is, how could it not be?) and yet. A loneliness-like recognizing like.  
  
His strictness doesn’t yield, but he loosens the position, when Winona grants him the concession. _You don’t need to salute me._ A disquieting glisten licks the back of his irises, evanescent like a gamma ray burst of fragmented pulsars, as undecipherable as the barest twitch of lips that accompanies it. The shadow of a smile, maybe, the flickering flame of a twisted _scoffing_ , a distorted reflection of someone else’s nightmare. It doesn’t break his composure, it doesn’t feel inappropriate. It isn’t even there, it tricks you into a threatening mystery for an instant, and after a few seconds you’re sure it never even happened. After all, no one would ever believe it if someone told them _Ensign_ Spock shot them unspoken threats. _Defied_ them.  
  
If there’s something everyone in the Section knows, is that Marcus’s little weapon cannot defy you. And in the remote case he did, you would only need to alert the Head, and the deviancy would be promptly corrected. You do not keep a dangerous _le-matya_ in the house if it can bite you. Little they know that resistance takes many forms, and that even exotic tokens could bring civilizations down. They aren’t able to recognize what he hides behind a raised eyebrow, and this saves him more times than he can count. Sometimes, sometimes he’d like to let them know, but this is his war language. The mother tongue of objects who speak to those convinced objects cannot, should not, speak.  
  
That is why, when Winona Kirk tells him he doesn’t have to salute her, and they both perfectly know that, if they were alone and he failed to honor her presence, it’d be outrage, and treason, and an insult to the kindness of those who gave him a second chance, he only answers, “Yes, ma’am. I apologize,” and then falls silent, eerily so.  
  
He hears his own name, and he turns again. He tilts his head slyly, his eyes narrow ever so thinly. The missing ensign rings in the air like an untold story, or an irreverent promise, mixing with the creaking fizzle of electricity and the low, steady hum of the conditioners buried in the wall to his right. They make a ticking sound at every switch from cooling to heating, he tangentially remembers; he used to number the ticks to ground himself when he got to freeze away in solitary, or smolder amidst overheated metal slides, or bleed out and wheeze to blackout after EIT simulations gone wrong.  
  
He stares at Kirk with a unique streak of dissecting interest, pierces through neon lights and blinding beacons with unflinching, uncanny challenge. Almost amused, if only he knew what amusement feels like. He has a role to play, he always does, but he detects it too, feels it. The likeness, the play, the understanding.  
  
“Yes, that was the idea, Mr. Kirk,” is what he answers, and not an ounce of his body appears sarcastic, not now. But perhaps a little wily, when he adds, “I appreciate the invitation,” although it’s hard to tell, considering the variations of his voice are so millimetric that it seems to never really leave the monotone.  
  
“What?” Parish snaps, eyebrows jumping high on his forehead, “Ensign, this man is _violent._ He’s in the brig for a reason, I don’t think it’s wise to go in.”  
  
Spock side-eyes him quietly, eyelids half-closing lingeringly on stone-cut features and moon-dust pallor. No recognizable expression lights his harsh traits, but for the briefest of moments, Javik can almost, _almost_ , smell a trail of weary condescension. Then, the Vulcan shakes his head once, respectfully, and the doctor is forced to reconsider.  
  
“I am aware, Dr. Parish,” he plays along, accommodating, a perfect English pronunciation that doesn’t betray the hard consonants and rasping sounds of _Vuhlkansu_ , “but this debrief is under my supervision now, it is my assessment that this would be the most efficient route forward. I take full responsibility if future events will prove me mistaken.” He turns towards Winona, lowering his gaze and bending his head infinitesimally. “If the Admiral allows me to proceed.”  
  
The woman sighs, lends him a last nod, and the Vulcan crosses the distance that separates him from the cell with three exact strides. He looks at Jim through brightly multifaceted hues of liquid tourmaline and pyrite, lowers the force field, and steps in. The ethereal buzz of containment energy comes back soon after, locking them in together. Spock clasps his hands behind his back, and inhales the metallic air that fluctuates idly in the holding cell.


	4. Dreams go on.

“I take the opportunity to offer my sincere congratulations for your mission. Orion territory is not an easy terrain, I have been told.” The way he says _told_ is akin to the way information disappears into a black hole, following the great unexplained paradox of the universe. He is the black hole, enigmatic and blurred and too dense, so very unframeable-shifting like an Eldritch-horror at the end of time, as he nimbly, calmly nears Jim’s position.  
  
It’s like cosmic anomaly locking on cosmic anomaly, and as gravity warps to infinite, plummeting beyond reason and physics, vibrations of a shared secret ripple the fabric of spacetime like gravitational waves chirping and twisting across lightyears, bending around mass the way the misty network that weaves their bodies together turns them into unmovable objects in this universe of bendable things. “I understand you were located on _Kolar_ , among the Orava. We need to know your exact status with the clan and every useful intel you may have acquired. Please, start describing how your interaction with the Syndicate has evolved and what your role in their dynamics has been.”  
  
And Jim's head is ostensibly tilted toward him-toward _that_. The unknowing and unknown, because of course he is-of course he's drawn to that, although one might guess he would be given his extracurricular reputation, they would never know the precise reason. The real reason. His own eyebrows bob in amusement, real amusement, but it's as if the expressions on his face lag behind the supernova in his mind-at once alarming-bright overwhelming miles of green and melted stone and twisted trees and empty, barren fields. Dust in the road and sparkling red-metal and whoops-of-joy. Upside-down.  
  
"Oh, _do you_?" he smirks, the words dry. "My status with the clan." He tuts a bit, eyeing Winona critically as he thinks, as he examines his current situation. "In short, I'm a bodyguard." He shows his wrist, which bears a neat, looping pattern seared inside a brand. "But I guess in the Federation it would translate roughly to _slave_ , Mr. Spock. Although our conceptions of slavery differ. Somewhat. You might say I have a _lot_ of useful intel," he adds, drawing his tongue out over his lips. Focused, distracted, curious.  
  
Or just plain baiting. "But the Orava clan are in talks with Rayyah. Word on the street is they've captured a Federation officer. By mistake, so I'm told. Rayyah are trying to secure his release. But that means I need to be _there_ , and not here. In this cell. Talking to ensigns about wanting to _fuck my mother_ or whatever psychological bullshit you're pulling this time. I mean, sure, she's _hot_ , but-"  
  
"Oh, for fuck's sake. Shut _up_ , Jimmy. Stop trying to goad the Vulcan, it's not going to work and it's just going to _piss me off._ " There is a great deal of history behind that threat, but momentarily, Jim looks cowed. Enough history to put him in his place, at least for a second. A split-second.  
  
"Why shouldn't I goad him? Why _shouldn't_ I goad you, Mr. Spock? After all, it's such a pleasure. I never get visitors." He beams, innocent as the sun.  
  
He analyzes the exchange between Jim and Winona, carefully, and obliquely, smelling smells of liquified sulphur and burning plastic and fried chitin of a thousand red ants drowned in mouldy scented gel. Acrylic paint hiding adobe-blood stains and sticky mud under nails warped and regrown. There’s a ringing tune in the back of his brain, deafening dodecaphonic gravel and fine clinking triangles, and dried, scorched wastelands of ages past. He can read between the lines, detect or decrypt or just sense, empirically so, personally so. He knows the pattern, he’s skilled in this footless dance, way past the triggering point, or perhaps just better at dissimulating. He pretends he’s a mirror, reflecting their figures and not his own, formless and pliable and echoing, refraction inside refraction. And he waits. Everything is a weapon, weaknesses especially. His own weaknesses, those he should not have, that is. And shapelessness makes for an excellent shapeshifter.  
  
Eventually, he turns towards Kirk again. His eyelashes lower mysteriously. Almost alluringly. His head cocks to the side, his lips twitch, or they seem to twitch. “Oh, but you _can_ goad me, Mr. Kirk, if that gives you emotional security.” He’s not smirking, of course not, he’s deadpan and dry, but you only need to blink once, and yield to the quickest suspension of disbelief, and you’d see wry teasing in overlay.  
  
The narrowing of his eyes, the unrelentingly subtle opening of his mouth, upper teeth slightly brushing against the lower lip, glistening faintly; are sharp as any wolf’s maw. And mischievous. And personifying. Yes, he raises a brow at Jim, devil-may-care and exquisitely poignant, and he regards him as a person. As a peer. (Although, perhaps, that’s a little arrogant for a thing like him.)  
  
“I am amenable to lending myself to some playful sophisms and some… I believe the correct word is _peacocking_ , as long as you give me the intel my superiors need in a timely manner. Especially if, as I inferred, you wish to return to your mission as soon as possible. Because until you are debriefed satisfyingly, you will not. These are the rules.” He laces his hands behind his back. “However, please, serve yourself, do goad me. You most certainly can.”  
  
The words stop fluidly, and silence fibrillates between bodies and breath, but something substitutes them, electrifies the air. Spock’s not touching him, not even through clothing. They are meters apart. But his elegantly unwavering voice reverberates around Jim’s head, his only. Spock can feel his temples heating, his ears hissing, but he does not betray himself; he checks his own pulse, inconspicuously, encircling his own wrist with two fingers still clasped behind his back, and soldiers on.  
  
Vulcans are not made for remote exchanges, most actually cannot initiate one without touch, and it takes a toll even on the darker depths of his rich, rigged brain, but for reasons he cannot quite explain, it seemed worth the effort. So, he funnels more energy into the telepathic connection he established, and speaks without speaking.  
  
 _As much as you can try to shock me with blunt candor. It is amazing ammunition, I am sure it was very effective with Dr. Parish. But I believe you have sensed, to some degree, it is not that easy to shock me. It surely is not easy to shock you, either. The only people who get upset when you speak of horrors, as they are called, are the privileged and the unaware, Mr. Kirk._  
  
Umber irises worm into sea eyes, and they look jaded. They wear sacred insignia, unholy. It is lucid disenchantment, stark disillusionment, clear-cut and beyond contingence, horrific decadence and a ballad of resilience.  
  
 _I suggest we, being none of the above, bypass this stage. Unless you have other sexual fantasies you feel the need to share._  
  
He basks and revels in the rising of a migraine, while a foggy tiredness gnaws at his limbs. He copes masterfully, and looks at Jim’s wrist again, curious and distant and sidereal. Conversely to the man in front of him, there’s no scar, no mark on his body. None you could see. But behind the glossy, slick cover of performativity and erasure, the book is mangled and gnarled. In his mind’s eye, his skin screams, and no one can hear.  
  
“So. Who is your owner among the clan, exactly? You mentioned the Orava are in contact with Rayyah. Are there updates you are aware of on the details of their relationship?”  
  
He volatilely recalls the first time he dealt with Rayyah people. It wasn’t long after Marcus deemed him ready for active duty on the field, but he’d learnt of the Section’s off-the-books, friable, fickle alliance with them way before that, during the training. His eidetic mind should be able to remember the timespan perfectly, but somehow, it feels like centuries ago. It feels like another life. He was still such a rough prototype. “Do you know where, exactly or with reasonable approximation, the captured officer is being held? According to your assessment, how committed to secure his release are Rayyah people at present?”  
  
Jim shrugs. "This is from Orava," he starts simply enough, tapping his wrist.  
  
"But Rayyah-they're more discriminating. They invest the time in their slaves to make them independent, functional, contributing members of the clan. They're the only Estate on _Kolar_ that does what they do. Right now, the SIT is run by a guy called Toreel. He manages _Yvvrih_ , a construction company, with the help of his initiate Nallia. Every new inductee goes through the same process. They'll keep you at the Estate long enough to ensure you won't run off, and then Toreel takes you under his wing, trains you for whatever job you're supposed to be doing. It's surprisingly effective, but with a Federation officer?  
  
Not so much. He'll be spending a much longer period of time at the facility, E-wing. Syrr Rayyah is the point-man these days, Orava's contacts are mainly going through them. They're as committed as however useful our intel proves to be to them. So _your_ owner must be sharing some fun little tidbits or we wouldn't be here. _Mine_ is Sharan Ryshar, a smooth-brain who barely understands how to power up a shuttle, so I've been doing a little light reading in my spare time. Right now, he thinks I've escaped, because _you idiots_ don't know how to sit back and let your people work on the ground."  
  
Jim's eyes narrow infinitesimally, and then something incredible happens. His voice flourishes in Spock's mind of its own accord, not because Spock has poked and prodded but a clear, concise projection emanating from the human before him.  
  
 _But now that you mention it, I'd much rather discuss the sexual fantasies._  
  
Spock nods calmly, when Jim shows his mark again. He listens silently, motionless in the cell, Winona’s and Javik’s eyes stuck on his back like hot glue. Kirk speaks of Rayyah, of their peculiar method, of loyalty through long-term conditioning, of compliance so well-crafted that it begets itself until coercion evaporates and you want to serve who you’re meant to serve, independently, functionally, inherently, and the shapeshifter morphs and shifts and falters, opening a chink in the crystal facets of his ever-changing appearance; for a second, the briefest of seconds, the shimmering of the metal collar that encases his neck, embedded in the flesh, stitched in by his very hands, shines through, as blinding as a quasar. As immaterial as ether, but very real, almost tactile, to him.  
  
He doesn’t interrupt; he lets Jim finish, absorbing information at heightened speed. A gelid shiver clings to his spine, teleporting him in the middle of an icy tundra for the timespan of the blink of an eye, when those two forbidden words, _your owner_ , are pronounced out loud, but he eventually comes back unaltered, only bitter, biting back the irrational urge to point out, do not be that explicit. Remarkably, a corner of his mouth rises eerily, a flash of a smile that would make a man’s skin crawl for how feral and cynical it appears, behind geometrical masks, while parched eyes hover to the floor and his chin bends down, brushing against his chest. He casually turns, gives Jim his profile, moves two inconsistent steps in a circle, so nonchalantly, so gracefully.  
  
“It is not that surprising, Mr. Kirk,” he briefly comments, knowing perfectly well he should gloss over, eyeing him slantwise before directing his glare towards the invisible micro-camera nestling in the narrow, dark interstice separating the third panel of the left wall from the fourth, at exactly four meters and fifteen centimeters from the floor. “I can see the efficiency in this way of handling slaves. I can see why... far-sighted people would find _appeal_ in that, would commit to the effort. It is undoubtedly very effective, much more than duress alone.”  
  
His irises tinge the gaze of furtive insolence, bizarrely amoral, while the tone remains non-accusational and unclear. Is he serious? Is he polemical? Is he implying the unspeakable? Is he stating facts? Any answer would be equally scary, as much as the transience with which he tranfixes the camera and then moves on is. “Dangerous, but effective.” A pause. A little prod. “After all, _tev-tor ek’yellar-_ ”  
  
A searing sting blossoms in his nape, ramifying down his body and forcing his muscles to contract, tense and vibrate. No one would notice, though, no one would smell the pain. Only trained, observant eyes could catch a glimpse of the devastation discharged down his nerves through the simple pression of a button. There’s only the faintest of tics making his hands spasm infinitesimally, his shoulders stiffen quietly, his jaw tighten, but no sound, no spectacle. He swallows the retribution as if it’s all he’s ever known, and all he’s ever craved.  
  
When electricity finally stops ravaging his organs, a mild burn ornates the center of his shoulder blades, greenish-brownish and already irritated by the friction against the blue synthetic polymers of his uniform. It was low-voltage. Just admonition. Apparently, he overstepped a little. He was, admittedly, straying from the core task.  
  
For now, he looks sweetly browbeaten, the elusive provocation gone. A small tug on the leash could only do good at reminding him of his duties. You do not convince a person that they are a commodity by merely treating them as such. You must persuade them that being a commodity is the most convenient way to live they have in their current conditions. You must make it a bargain. And Rayyah are good at that. Alexander Marcus-he is good at that too. Or so it seems.  
  
Spock doesn’t need to check to guess the expressions Parish and the Admiral display. The doctor has the look of someone who is just waiting for the interrogation to continue, vaguely perplexed, oblivious. Winona has the look of someone who is coolly fascinated, someone who can smell singed Vulcan skin through the force field, and finds it almost endearing. Spock, though, does not regard either of them.  
  
“If necessary, we _idiots_ will find a way to retcon your supposed escape and craft a coherent scenario that exonerates you from blame and does not compromise your position further.” A slanted brow arches on Spock’s face. “As far as geoeconomics goes, does _Yvrrih_ have active branches that cater to clans other than Rayyah themselves? We do have a geopolitical profiling of the Orion Syndicate but I would like your recent empirical experience to weigh in on that, as Orion society is fluid by definition. If you are aware of newly arising rivalries between clans or informal alliances not widely advertised, report what you know.”  
  
Then, after a quick pause, he adds, “Moreover, are you privy to what kind of job they intend to prepare the Starfleet officer for, in case Rayyah do not spontaneously release him?”  
  
The projection Jim’s brain gives off curls around Spock’s nostrils like a pleasant scent. He blinks, swiftly licks his lips, peeks in. _At present, I am personally far more fascinated by your starkly human yet not psi-null mind. But you can always try to shift my interest, if your imagination is vivid enough you may even succeed._  
  
Jim on the other-hand doesn’t look vaguely interested at all, and his expression could not be different from Winona’s-his lips pressed together in a thin, hard, disapproving line. It’s obvious only to the telepath in the room that Jim’s noticed at all, but he doesn’t reply. He’s good at swallowing down his own retributive characteristics, regardless of what the Admiralty say about his impulsivity.  
  
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” is what he huffs instead, feigning obliviousness all his own. “The Orions are notoriously suspicious, the Syndicate even more so. And I’m aware of a lot, but that awareness is only as beneficial as the experience behind it.” His eyebrows raise, the message pointed. _You need me._ The double entendre can’t be missed.  
  
If he’s noticed that Jim noticed, that’s a riddle for others to solve; he isn’t giving any clue, he isn’t betraying any emotion, he isn’t addressing the issue. Perhaps, he doesn’t even find reason to. Why address something that’s so very natural, so very revered, so very sweetly untouchable and so very embedded in the fabric of life itself? Illogical, darlin’, illogical.  
  
 _You seem to act on the assumption that I intend to discard you. Or that I would have the authority to do so, even._ The words keep flowing seamlessly between their neural pathways, speeding back and forth invisibly and mysteriously, like two citizens of lost tyrannies smuggling banned books right under the dictator’s eyes, two prisoners exchanging escape notes right in front of the guards. _Do not misinterpret me, it is a very valid, self-preserving mindset in the world of disposability. It is merely unwarranted now._  
  
“That is why they sent me here, asking for your insight, instead of demanding a basic report on the mission and then moving on. Your experience-I need _that_.” He stares him down, poignantly, his voice lingering on the minimal difference that turns need, that need, from forbidden zero-day to self-created backdoor. He is allowed to need people’s skills, not people themselves. But he is also not denying the existence of something beyond his control, because staunch denial is a slip in control all the same, is it not? You have to accept the flow and exploit it from the inside out. “And I believe I have enough of my own to understand and capitalize on yours. So, maybe we should move this debrief to a ready room, with a map of Orion space at hands, and integrate your awareness into that.”  
  
He stops looking at him, all of a sudden, and turns to glance at Winona, as if asking for her approval-unspoken, and peripherally, tangentially, asking for someone else’s too. “Especially if we have a Starfleet officer to rescue. I believe Mr. Kirk will not wreck havoc this time.” He doesn’t smile, but what he willingly, purposefully shoots through their telepathic link is an amorphous cloud that resembles sarcasm, but also an unclear request of collaboration.  
  
 _You need me too, Mr. Kirk. You need someone who sees the universe, partly, like you do._  
  
Winona's chin lifts as she gives a high, sharp sigh and waves her hand to the guard. _Medical detention_ in this instance really has been code-word for _tossed in the brig_.  
  
"I trust you'll keep an eye on him, Ensign," Winona's words curl at the ends, skeptical as ever, her mind a hard wall of shimmering diamonds. "You vouched for him. He's _your_ responsibility, now. If anything goes awry, I will be _up your ass_ so fast you'll be shitting out of your mouth for a week." Her arms cross as the brig door opens. It's at least easy to tell where Kirk gets his crassness from.  
  
"Oh, _lighten up_ , Winona," Jim perks as the forcefield lowers and he takes a tentative step out. "Spock and I get along just grand, don't we?" he shoots a smirk to the Vulcan. "Let's get this show on the road. I'm starving. Do these replicators serve crawfish boil? All I've eaten in the last three months is leftover _gagh_. Gotta say I'm not a fan. _Gagh_ should be moving, you know?..."


	5. Among the leather saddles,

Spock’s body’s not his own, not now, not as his muscles react to Winona Kirk’s words in a fashion that transcends consciousness and will. The flesh remembers. It always does. The mind may revel in the comfort of fog and haze, of treacly dissociating trances, but the flesh begets awareness. The flesh answers to the unspoken. Leaves no hole unearthed. No cut uninfected. So, even if he wished he could remain fluid and flexible like clay, his bones sing and howl and grate, and he snaps to rigid attention, staring a thousand yards into emptiness. Swallowing the warning as if it’s all he’s ever known.  
  
And so, it seems that even Admiral Kirk is fond of underlining the obvious, the superfluous. In truth, he expected this; it is the unmistakable characteristic of people with power-they _underline_ it. They fear they may lose it, hence they _stress_ it, or perhaps they just _take pleasure in it_. They wave their power around like a flag of divine heritage, they make it flashy, they make it eye-catching. Or, they make it menacing. Spock’s always asked himself if they realize how _fragilely shallow-rooted_ they sound whenever they do-except, this line of thought is sedition, _lese-majesty_ , is it not?  
  
Her voice, he tangentially ponders, could be deconstructed into a rhythmic ramification of modulated sound waves; pick them apart, and they mean _nothing_. He would only need to meet them with adequate destructive interferences and they will be annulled forever.  
  
But he does not _want_ to annul them. He wants to embrace them. Kiss their shell like the hard, miniated cover of his holy scriptures, the engraved low-reliefs of the _Kir’shara_ ’s pyramid; kneel at their shrine of black dahlias and roses, letting them pry him open and violate his very self and inebriate his nostrils with sickly sugary subjugation, suck them hard till every syllable vibrates with orgasm and he drowns in dark chocolate and liquid trellium and acid vomit.  
  
He moistens the inside of his lips, licking away the droplets of cloying, festering threats and sneering delight. Admonitions have a peculiarly intoxicating flavour. They remind him of what he is, and what he is not. They are the _cure_ in the face of _degenerative regression towards dissidence_.  
  
And yet also, contingently, not. They make you responsible, they make you guilty, they make you the scapegoat, and they think they’re breaking your knees, making you crawl. They’re not. He has to carve agency out of scraps and leftovers, and this is where he finds it-in blame.  
  
“Anatomically improbable,” he blinks candidly, teetering on the thin line that divides unintentional, overzealous Vulcan literalism from purposeful, pesky nuisance, “but yes, ma’am. Of course. Understood. I take full responsibility, I will not disappoint your trust.”  
  
Winona only raises a brow, impervious, smothering the operative’s movements with her eyes, as he leaves the cell after her son, and starts to walk towards the exit, the same corridor they all came from. She withdraws her consideration a second later, when she turns towards Javik, pulling a lock behind her ear.  
  
“You can go, Parish. Jimmy will survive even without you. And for everyone’s sake I hope he won’t need medical attentions again.”  
  
“I can’t say I’m disappointed,” he quickly mutters with a smear of scorn, rolling his eyes.  
  
Spock looks at Jim, smells his smirk like a _sa-te kru_ sniffles his hunting partner before allowing them in his own territory, and he tilts his head with animal crypticity. “Let us proceed in an orderly fashion, Mr. Kirk. First we finish your interrogation, and then, if you behave,” he still plays, as his eyes glisten languidly and archly at the word while his face wears void-like apathy like a second skin, his jaw set and steely, “I will buy you lunch.”  
  
They reach the end of the corridor, abandon the prison area and the stark, blinding whiteness of its walls behind them. It’s Spock who leads the way, walking seamlessly through the building, his peripheral view locked calmly on Jim. And when they reach the doors he’s been aiming for, he just steps aside, giving way to Kirk. “Shall we?”  
  
“Oh, I think we’re finished,” Jim says, his voice taking on an edge it hadn’t when he was locked up in that cell. “I’m here as a courtesy. Consider it a collaboration, because I guarantee you an _interrogation_ will yield you nothing.”  
  
His eyebrows lift. It’s not a threat, exactly, the words are almost light-hearted. And yet. He brushes idly past Spock into the room and draws up the holographic map with his hand, gesturing in specific, rhythmic motions to overlay categories of data streams.  
  
“Here, here, and here,” Jim marks them, decisive and straight to the point. “Weak points of entry, _Yvrrih_ are still completing construction. We go in, we head under the Estate here, we meet up with Toreel and complete the hand-off. Dr. Ganna gets home safe and sound.”  
  
And then Jim sits himself on the table, expectant. “I’ll take that lunch, now.”  
  
Spock raises a slanted eyebrow, as he follows Jim in the war room, all charcoal walls and opaque floors. He seasons Kirk’s retort with a sardonic look, following his movements with sly attention. _“Oh. So touchy,”_ is what clinks through their fraying telepathic connection, cheekily so, and annoyingly yielding. He nears the long touch-screen table, holograms dancing above it and interactive information swimming on its polished surface—numbers, stats, translucent cyan lights floating around the immaculate holographic reconstruction of Orion space, carefully cherry-picked to exclude those juicy details the Section wouldn’t want Kirk to know. Although, if the man’s truly worthy of catering to the 31 as field contractor in highly hostile terrains—and Spock can sense talent when he’s faced with it; he’s a _natural_ , after all—he probably knows some of them already. He hangs a hand on the desk’s edge, without leaning on it, without ruining the soldierly spruceness of his stance; and yet, he _does_ bend his hip an inch, dangle his head a little, just a little, a taste of unraveling, of moldable limbs, the elasticity of the perfect sacrificial beast, before returning to strict, unyielding composure. He listens, assesses and tastes the crisp directness with which Jim gives him what he was after, and finally clasps his hands behind his back when it’s over, nodding once.  
  
“Your proposed strategy appears solid. If _Yvrrih_ is still under construction, it should not be hard to smuggle agents in, perhaps as construction slaves, manpower. I will inform my superiors, decisions should be made soon regarding who will aid you on this mission,” is what he finally says, unblinking. “Thank you, James.” He quickly turns, eyeing him glancingly over his own shoulder. “As for lunch, the replicators are in the mess hall, and they do serve plenty of crawfish boil. I suppose you earned it.” His voice sounds now flat and concise, almost disinterested, even though he _knows_ Jim must suspect it isn’t, really. Is it a change of tactic? The end of the performance? Or perhaps, just another flirt. He narrows his eyes, purses his lips, and lands his irises on the mildly reflecting surface of the doors in front of him. On Jim’s mirror image. On his eyes, barely blue against the shiny ivory color of the doors. “I trust we will resume this _collaboration_ , sooner or later.”  
  
"It's _Jim_ , actually," one eyebrow cocks, pointed. "And I'm not interested in being an _asset_. You have a choice. You can hang out here with my dearly beloved mother and 31's three-ring circus, or you can come with me. Either way I intend to get Ganna back, with or without your help." He smiles, then. There's plenty about Spock to be fascinated about, but it's _not_ the performance. Not itself. That certainly does play into it, though, but for different reasons than he suspects. "Oh, better idea, how about a _kitchen_?" this time Jim's smile is genuine. "You know how to cook, Spock? C'mon," he hops off the table and gestures to the door.  
  
When he hears that word, _asset_ , he can’t help but release a curt breath from his nostrils, almost resembling a mute, mirthless laugh. You live so long with humans—not _with_ humans, _under_ humans—and you start finding appeal in expressing yourself like they do. Just a little. He isn’t immune to assimilation, and emulation is the purest form. They encourage it, up to a point. And he obediently obliges. “Incorrect, _Jim._ ” He tilts his head, shakes it once, raises a finger without untying the hand knot behind his back. He plays with the name, twists it a bit, pronounces it with vaguely alien sonorities, letting his original accent glisten preciously below the surface of sound, before vanishing again. “The choice is not mine. I can only file a proposal and submit it to my superiors.” At best. Only when he proves to be a particularly fruitful investment. “And allow me to tell you, there is nothing unbecoming in being an asset.” He turns again, giving him his profile. “It is a condition of high proficiency, and high appreciation. Slightly uncomfortable, maybe, but not undignified–…”  
  
He stops in his tracks, and holds back a sigh. The sentence ends abruptly, as if it’s never been aired in the first place. Continuing would be unwise. He’ll settle for this and quit giving _attitude_ for a while, before infuriating his benevolent magnates excessively. He knows when to nibble, and when to concede. “However, I shall file that proposal, yes. I do share your belief that we could handle the mission appropriately, together.” Something in the way he says it adamantly, and sincerely, now, suggests that maybe he was just waiting for Jim to voice the mutual idea first. Easier to coax the Admiralty into pulling him from his current duties, if it isn’t _him_ the original author of the bid. “Unfortunately, not crawfish boil. And I fear I do not have enough spare time to attend to your wishes so thoroughly. You are not your mother,” he casually replies, hiding an explosive smirk that isn’t aimed at Jim, although he’s talking to him. He walks out of the room, waving his hand elegantly as he adds, “Follow me.”  
  
" _Ohh kay_ ," Jim snorts. "You _file your proposal,_ hot shot," he barely conceals his eyeroll. He skips after Spock after something dawns on him. "Wait, are you saying you'd think I was hotter if I was my mother, because that's a _lot_ to unpack-"  
  
 _Oh._ Of course. Spock could not expect his soon-to-be mission partner to drop his mask, if he doesn’t drop his own either. And he sure as hell is not going to. After all, Jim Kirk could just be a very skilled player of Spock’s own world, and not the kind of player his first instincts told him he was—because he clearly _is_ a player, the question is whether he’s a player in his own game or someone else’s. Jim Kirk could just be a _test_ , a sweet, entertaining proof of fidelity, a challenge for his allegiance. A _temptation_ carefully laid at his feet for him to _resist_ , or _succumb._ Better safe than sorry, they say. Although, if this actually _was_ a test, he’d already have _a lot_ to be sorry for.  
  
Well, doesn’t matter. He can always beg and grovel. He’s skilled at indignity. And they love when a Vulcan crawls.  
  
“Always so wildly inappropriate,” Spock drawls, eyerolling just like Jim did, in the exact same, barely concealed way. As he exits the room, a quick flick of his wrist tells one of the guards watching the entrance of the prison sector to follow them at a distance. Sooner or later he’ll have to quit this game and leave, and Admiral Winona Kirk would not appreciate the scenario of her son left wandering alone in the building. They reach the mess hall soon enough, and the Vulcan gestures lithely towards a table.  
  
“As promised, your lunchtime. After all, you are a _guest of the Federation._ ” He bends his head in an ostentation of respect that doesn’t sound fake per se, only a little provocative. Then, he calmly nears a replicator, the artificial illumination gleaming finely on his Starfleet badge; he inserts his own code and asks for Jim’s dish. “And while we are at it, you could gift me with some more information about our Toreel. Did you directly meet him?”  
  
"If _I'm_ a guest, you're sure as shit not the host," Jim remarks, an astute observation that cuts quickly to the core, but made almost in passing. Easily missed. "I'll tell you about Toreel, sure. If you come with me." _That_ slides in as sharp as any knife, a maneuver as bold and broad as daylight, but effective nonetheless. _Check_.  
  
He breathes in a scent akin to that of fluoroantimonic acid, the taste of corroded flesh and rightful scandal. The replicator blinks and jingles, and Spock quickly takes out the dish it prepared, turning in a twirl like a professional waiter. The cut feels spectacular. A superlative stab, tingling and stinging against the right nerves. Nothing tastes better than drawn blood. He takes the knife and pushes it deeper, twists it, scissoring the wound and grimacing in smug euphoria at the sensation. “And what would I be, then?” he innocently asks, almost surprised, and gloriously _subversive_. He approaches the table and leans forward a little to lay the plate on it. He peeks at Jim from below, through long, Desert-bred eyelashes. “Blackmail?” His eyebrows slide up. “Did I make such a good impression to warrant blackmail?” He shakes his head martially, places a hand on the table. “No need for it. I already pledged to file a proposal, did I not?” And now, there is a reason for his _handler_ to consider it... accurately. _Stalemate._

Jim literally does not even bother to look at whatever Spock prepared for him, which could be a plate of vomit for all he knows before he begins shoveling it easily into his mouth one heaping spoonful at a time. He speaks around a mouthful anyway, crass as can be. "Blackmail," he agrees with a grin. Not against _Spock_ , that much is clear. "I want you with me on this one. Fuck knows why, but there you have it." Some real honesty, for a change. Jim oscillates frequently, it appears.  
  
It is not vomit, but also not crawfish. It is _pre tarmeeli_ —savoury, hot Vulcan vegetables resembling curry, served with _forati_ , a highly spicy Vulcan sauce that vaguely tastes like garlic. Something that, of _course_ , Spock himself hasn’t eaten in a decade, and will not be eating for all the decades yet to come either. “Well, I appreciate it,” he admits earnestly, surveying Jim’s eating habits from above with a neutral, uncritical gaze, “This mission promises to be stimulating, that much is clear.” For a second, if you’re careful enough to catch it, you could swear the ghost of weariness, exhaustion, flashed on his face, making him seem suddenly tired, consumed. A second later, though, it is already gone, and his hands meet behind his back, and he’s all shiny platinum and silky hair again.  
  
Jim keeps talking with his mouth full, in a truly charming display. Finally he pauses to add, "Hey-this stuff is _really_ good. Vulcan?" his eyebrows lift, curious cat. Curious _George_ , he has to laugh to himself. What a pity. "Stimulating, yeah. And terrifying, in equal measure. If the whole _being enslaved_ thing turns you off. Hell, it might turn you _on_." His features waggle suggestively, but it's clearly not serious.  
  
He simply nods once at the question, carelessly. He doesn’t delve into names, and details, and _irrelevance_. Jim likes the taste, finds it _really good_ , and that’s what matters, that’s what Vulcan cuisine is for— _exotic flavors_ for those who appreciate otherness. The snips and bits of culture locked within ingredients and recipes and preparation and the hotness of the sands where the tubers _forati_ is made of grew—all of this is, plainly put, irrelevant. And he, of course, does not care. “Does it turn _you_ off,” his head dangles to the left, “or on?” and then to the right, “You appeared quite impatient to resume your mission, return to Sharan Tova.”  
  
"I'm impatient to resume my _mission_ , yeah," Jim agrees. "Sharan Tova is a half-wit. I can handle him. But the longer we fuck around here, the longer that Federation doctor is in Orion custody. Custody that I am certain does not maintain a positive impact on _him_. So, yeah. Impatient."  
  
Spock’s hands untie loosely. “Very well, then,” he taps his knuckles twice on the table, as those words leave his mouth and he straightens his shoulders, taking a step back. He taps in a fashion that scarily resembles someone else’s, except he has no Academy ring shimmering on his fingers, rattling against the metal. After all, like _father_ , like _son._ Even when father is nothing but a comforting metaphor for the faint-hearted. “We should waste no more time.” He glances at the guard who followed them, nods at him silently, has him take over the surveillance—more of a formality than a real concern. Then, he blinks and his irises rest on Jim again, almost intimately. “I leave you to your meal, Mr. Kirk. Perhaps, we will meet again on the ground. If not,” a corner of his mouth twitches, but doesn’t settle into any permanent expression, “live long and prosper.” His right hand doesn’t rise and part in a _ta’al_ , and he murmurs that almost amusedly. His so-called kin would crawl at the careless, skeptical desecration he slips in his own clinical voice, as he articulates the revered Vulcan greeting like it was a depthless joke—one nobody would probably recognize as such, in there. His gaze, though—that doesn’t morph. It only atrophies an inch.  
  
"We will!" Jim calls after him, and stands, depositing his empty plate into the reclamator. "Seeya later, Cupcake," he pats the guard on the shoulder before strolling out of the cafeteria. The guard finds that the doors have locked behind him, and Kirk grins at him from behind the glass before finding himself something _fun_ to do. 


End file.
